


Woven Wickedness

by Alzerak



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, pure filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 02:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20202061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alzerak/pseuds/Alzerak
Summary: Poor, innocent Jon Stark just wanted to retire for the evening for important business in the morrow, but his plans are set awry by the villainous machinations of Queen Sansa Stark.





	Woven Wickedness

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Pure, plotless filth ahead. You have been warned.

Sansa Stark was a wicked woman.

Jon Stark had just entered he and his wife’s shared solar. Sansa had stepped away from her desk, and Jon, filled with curiosity, decided to see what she had been working on.

Sansa was a liar, who lied to her own beloved husband! Jon thought, looking at the partially sewn creation. She had promised that she would wear some old thing, when Jon had confided his legitimate fears that were she to create a new dress that accentuated her delightful curvature or that teased him with her breasts, that he would not be able to be a gracious host for Tormund’s visit, as his thoughts would be consumed with lust. Sansa, the liar, had smiled prettily and promised she would behave.

Jon would have to punish her. He stepped away from her desk as she returned from their chamber, having changed in to her sleepwear. But instead of wearing her usual nightgown, she had wrapped herself in the cloak she had made for him at Castle Black. 

Instead of greeting him, she sauntered past as Jon raised an eyebrow, smirking as she did.

Jon began to casually speak about the upcoming meeting with Tormund; whilst it was a visit between old friends, there were going to be some important matters to discuss between the north and the north beyond the wall.

Sansa seemed to be paying Jon very little mind; Jon watched as she sat at her desk and began to work, her fingers diligently and cleverly moving to craft and sew as Jon continued to speak. After a short while, Sansa stood, pushing her chair aside, ostensibly to better reach some areas of the dress she was working on, but it had the secondary effect of thrusting her shapely arse out to Jon’s gaze. With his libido already dangerously high, Jon’s legs shifted uncomfortably, and that Sansa noticed, darting her tongue out as she smirked at his discomfort.

Standing up, Jon slowly began to move towards her, but Sansa had returned to her sewing.

“How’s your dress coming?” Jon asked. Sansa did not respond, except to shift herself, which had the side-effect of increasing the arousal of Jon’s manhood, hardening his shaft against his breeches. Sansa, for her part, seemed too engrossed in her work to pay Jon much mind. Jon moved behind her, his arms reaching over her shoulders before his hands landed on the table on either side of her.

Now, he could see what Sansa was doing; adding the finishing touches, like a delicate lace hem around the neckline, or some gossamer around the sleeves. Jon leaned in to whisper in the shell of her ear, his body coming tantalisingly close to hers.

“My Lady Wife promised me she understood the difficult situation I’d find myself in should she produce such a garment which she is doing right now.” Jon said, kissing the shell of Sansa’s ear and running his left hand up the side of her body as he did. Truly, he was lying, for Sansa could wear anything and his traitorous body would respond to her, but she didn’t have to make it so hard for him…

And she did not have to push herself back into him and rub herself whilst she worked, acting as though this behaviour and his presence had no bearing upon her, her hand steady as she worked.

Jon let out a hiss as the movement of her arse against his cock hardened him to aching fullness. Sansa suppressed a small sigh, barely noticeable and hardly more than a slight intake and out take of breath; but it was enough to fuel Jon, who stepped back away from his wife, lest he thrust himself into her and ruin the chance he would have at showing semblance of control.

Bunching the side of his cloak that she wore, Jon lifted it up, exposing the bare skin of Sansa’s ivory-white legs, hoisting the bottom of the cloak onto his forearms to allow his hands to run up the inside of her thighs. 

“Got to make my pretty wife feel what I feel.” Jon whispered as his hands gently stroked her bare legs. “She said she would behave herself, yet I see she has deceived me with her creation.” Jon’s fingers trailed up to the apex between Sansa’s legs, meeting only Sansa when he expected to feel soft silk.

“Gods, fuck, Sansa!” Jon exclaimed. Sansa did not respond, nor did her focus waver from her work, yet Jon could envisage the triumphant smirk on her face at him becoming more undone by her state of attire. Regretfully, Jon withdrew his fingers from around the edge of her thigh and cunt, flipping the skirt of the cloak over her arse. Sansa shifted herself, widening her stance and opening a larger gap between her legs. Half frozen with lust, Jon was caught in two minds, before his body seemed to catch up to his mind and reality started racing around him, his hands moving of their own accord to try and shove his own breeches down past his hard cock, which ached for some kind of release from the tormenting arousal that Sansa Stark was putting it through. Jon would normally fall to his knees and feast at the altar that was his wife’s cunny; perhaps, in circumstances are desperate as these, he would also stroke his cock simultaneously to sooth the raging hardness, but Jon knew that although he could bring Sansa apart with his tongue, a process that he loved, craved and desired, his base lusts wished to know if he could do the same by fucking her without anything but basic preamble, as he knew she could pull him apart were the situation reversed, and, Jon freely admitted to himself, licking and sucking and supping at her cunny was likely to arouse him further, which was the exact opposite effect he desired as he tried to make her body betray her feigned indifference.

Taking his cock in hand, he guided the tip between the folds of Sansa’s cunt, finding it wet with little drops of arousal. Jon, resisting the temptation to immediately thrust into her tight and warm quim, ran his cock through her folds as Sansa began to hum Jenny of Oldstones. Jon needed to punish her further, as every time he heard that song, especially from her, his lustful cock would be triggered with the memory of this night. Sansa had to know what she was doing, for she wiggled slightly, telling Jon the time had come, even though she continued to work on her dress as though it was the only focus she had.

Jon guiding his cock into Sansa’s cunt; trying to remember that he was supposed to be in control of the situation, and that spending mere moments into the act would not help him achieve his goal, took a fortifying breath, before changing from his usual tactic of a slow build-up, and thrusting his cock to its fullest reach deep into her tight, wet, hot cunny. This change from his normal method of operations bore dividends, as Sansa’s humming was broken by a long moan. Pressing his advantage, Jon began to piston his hips as he began to fuck his wife with celerity, a very dangerous action if he wished to avoid spending inside her before she fell apart around him, her dressworking forgotten. Jon, grasping for anything to alleviate the lust he felt in the moment as his wife’s cunt hugged his cock, tried to imagine any random boring mundane histories, or happenings or mathematical equations, but it was to no avail, the bliss that was the reality of being inside his wife’s cunny, a pleasure only equalled by supping on it, drew his mind back from wanderings immediately forgotten. 

But despite that she managed to return to her sewing, Sansa was not unaffected, her hips beginning to move to meet Jon’s thrusts, and her breathing becoming shakier indicated she was beginning to feel the effects of his ministrations. To give himself what little relief he could, Jon slowed his speed to allow himself steadier and longer thrusts, his cock nearly withdrawing from her cunt every swivel of his hips. 

Knowing he needed to bring everything he had to bear, Jon’s hands moved up Sansa’s body, reaching underneath his own cloak to find her completely bare beneath it. Jon stroked his hands up and down her torso, avoiding her breasts as he leaned over to place his body flush against her back, weighing her down enough to make her away of his weight without being painful. Jon wished to tell her of how she affected him, yet he could not without revealing the exact same, trying to feign nonchalantness at the feel of her cunny sheathed around his manhood.

Sansa’s fingers, which had begun by delicately manuevering fabrics and needles and threads, were now consigned to gripping the edge of the table, or holding her cloak open for ease of Jon’s exploration of her body. Every couple of moments, Sansa seemed to gain a stronger mental fortitude, returning to her work that Jon was proud to see was not actually working at all, merely giving the illusion of an unaffected state. 

Jon gambled in the moment, reaching to cup Sansa’s gorgeous breasts, allowing his fingers explore the stiff peaks of her nipples, despite knowing that touching, kneading and playing with her Wolf Bits was probably just as arousing for him as it was for her. Jon’s bravery was rewarded, as Sansa’s cunny began to pulse, before she rudely interrupted his plan to make her orgasm before drawing his seed by bumping her arse back against him as she stretched her arms above her head as though she were yawning and totally not getting into the act. 

With victory seemingly at hand, Jon realised a terrible truth - his wife, upon the eve of the next day, would wear the new dress sending Jon into a lustful haze for hours, in which the Jon’s ability to perform his duties would be compromised. For the sake of the realm, Queen Sansa Stark had to be taught a lesson, and although it was close to torturous, Jon withdrew from his wife, stepping away to Sansa’s confusion, her leg lifting up and squeezing together around her cunt just as the skirt that he had held up feel back to down to obscure her body from view.

Jon began to slowly remove his shirt, taking his time to make Sansa squirm, but she responded by shrugging her shoulders, as though to loosen a kink in her body, before picking her dress up and standing up, arms outstretched above her head, as though she were checking the hang, seemingly completely oblivious to the fact that the cloak she wore teetered on the precipice of falling off of her shoulders. Seeming to notice she was missing something, Sansa replaced the dress on the table she worked on it with, glanced to the seat she had moved aside, and departed to her chambers, the cloak just managing to cling to her shoulders. 

Confused as to who was seducing who, Jon wondered if Sansa left a message in her actions, quickly realising that she had, and ignoring what that meant for the specific desire to seduce her out of pretending not to feel anything that was happening around her, Jon sat down on her seat, pulling it back to the table so Sansa could continue to work on her dress when she returned.

Sansa returned a moment later, holding a basket, the cloak hanging around her shoulders, just teasing her body, causing Jon’s cock to twitch with interest, but Sansa pretended to pay him no mind, walking behind him to place the cloak on the back of the seat, which just happened to have Jon sitting on top of it, so Sansa didn’t realise that she was actually placing the cloak on Jon’s shoulder, before moving seat her self atop Jon, doing so slowly to allow him to adjust the angle of his cock so the walls of her cunt would envelop it once more.

With Sansa atop him, the dynamic changed. Now Sansa controlled the pace, and began to work again on her sewing, still feigning an ignorance of Jon’s presence, notwithstanding the fact she was grinding against him with his cock speared deep into her cunny. Sansa’s movements were short and methodical, yet being possessed of an undeniable power, but at the same time allowing herself the steadiness she needed to work on her dress. Because she was a cruel woman, Sansa began to sing, this time, Jenny of Oldstones with the words, callously ignoring the fact that Jon was trying desperately not to spill, the sweet innocence of her voice a juxtaposition to the pleasure she was finding in the act she was partaking in. Jon would have to mentally control himself lest the memory of this moment ruin any feasts where Sansa might decide to sing in the future.

In desperation, Jon firmly grasped Sansa’s hips, holding on tightly with his fingertips to stop her bouncing as she sang, struggling to keep her cunt from milking his seed out of his cock, but Sansa responded by grinding and swivelling herself, forcing Jon to take drastic measures, his strong arms lifting her thighs so her cunny barely kissed his cock, which paid immediate dividends when Sansa’s high note turned into a whine at the reduction in contact, forgetting her feigned indifference as she tried to push herself back down his cock, whilst taking Jon’s manhood in her hands as she tried to fill herself with his cock again, writhing as Jon would not permit it.

“I’m sorry Jon!” Sansa begged sweetly. “I’ll be a good girl like I promised! You won’t think of bending me over in the great hall and fucking my tight, wet cunt, I swear it!” 

Shocked by her promised proclamation, Jon released his hold, allowing her cunt to descend, feeling the walls of her quim pulse around him as he clenched his thighs to try and stop his own release. Sansa’s hand flew to the button of pleasure at the apex of her cunt, rubbing the pad of her palm against it to accentuate her release. Once Sansa had some release, Jon pushed her off of him, knowing that even another moment inside her warm, wet, and tight cunny would cause him to spill. Breathing heavily, Jon and Sansa scrambled up from their seat, and Jon and Sansa looked at each other, their lustful gazes scanning each others’ clearly aroused bodies. Sansa’s eyes were a deep, vivid blue as she licked her lips at the sight of Jon’s erect manhood and sculpted body, before she stepped to the side and charging straight into him, launching herself into his arms, but instead of steadying herself in his arms the force of her body stunned Jon by knocking his balance askew, making him tumble back into a thick pile of rugs, swing herself forward so that her cunny hovered above his mouth for a split-second before she lowered her centre to his lips, grinding and moaning as Jon took to the feast presented to him with gleeful abandon. Sansa allowed Jon a few minutes to build himself up, before she began to fuck his face in earnest, trying to remember not to squeeze her thighs together too tightly around his face, or block his nose with her body. Jon’s hands were fisted in the furs below him, so utterly engrossed he was in the sensation of Sansa’s core rubbing against his face, the sweet moans he elicited from her shooting straight through his groin. 

Sansa rode Jon’s lips and tongue to another, higher peak than before, her fingers cording through his hair, tugging so as to cause a dull pulling pain in his scalp that enhanced rather than detracted from his experience, before relaxing her thighs, allowing Jon to bring her to another peak at a more leisurely pace, and Jon, though his cock was painfully ready to spend, had no desire to hurry the process along, and savoured every moment that Sansa rode him, before she rose off him, her legs quaking as she steadied herself. Jon took a moment to look her over, before seeing past her heaving chest and quirking a grin, a smile which she easily returned, offering a hand to help him up.

A change passed over Sansa as she looked Jon over; she appeared far more demure in her mannerisms, despite her state of undress and the acts she had just partaken in, which drove Jon’s depraved lusts further, yet Jon wondered what was making his darling wife clasp her hands together as a pretty flush spread down her chest, though he would not have been surprised that this was deliberate act to arouse him further, as Sansa was a smart woman even without the cues presented to her.

It took Jon a moment to realise that Sansa had said something; her small voice faint as she repeated her query, averting her gaze as she spoke.

“Can we try something new?”

Jon’s head quirked with interest. “Sweet girl, you could ask anything of me and I would grant it at this moment.” Truthfully, Jon would do just about anything for Sansa, but the sentiment still rang true, as Sansa continued gingerly.

“Would you mind if we, umm, had relations, in a different manner?”

Jon paused to think. “A new position?” Of course, there was no question - he’d throw out a muscle and risk ridicule from Arya at training if Sansa had a new way she wanted to ride him, but Sansa, seemingly unable to articulate her desire, returned from stepping away to her desk to present Jon with the now opened basket she had brought in, and Jon’s vision went nearly black, as he was presented with a chance to enact desires that only reared their head in the depths of his filthiest dreams.

His silent awe must have sent the wrong message to Sansa, for she shut the lid, shocking Jon out of his reverie to hear her apologies and pleas to forget the whole affair.

“Yes.”

Sansa paused, as though she was uncertain.

“Yes, I mean no, I mean, I would like to try something like that,’ Jon clarified, flushing himself at the prospect. “Although I don’t know how.”

Sansa flushed. “I’ve been reading,” Sansa explained, showing Jon a jar of sweet oil. “I tried it myself and I think it works, but it might be different for you - and anyway I didn’t go further than just rubbing around the area, so…” Sansa trailed off, and Jon wondered if he should inform her that merely speaking of such triggered his imagination in vivid enough detail that might make any such discussion partially moot, although even that thought was ludicrous, for even if he were to spend at the filthy mental images conjured by his imagination, he would soon be ready once more. 

Guiding Jon to their bedroom, Sansa repositioned the pillows to cradle Jon’s body, allowing Jon to rest on their comfortable bed, before handing Jon the book Jon supposed she had learned from. Jon took a moment to settle himself, before sighing as Sansa lowered her sweet, wet mouth around his hard cock, sloppily slurping her saliva around his manhood as she avoided sucking him, but rather kept him pleasantly on the brink of pleasure as she lubricated him and gave him the time to read through the guidance presented in the book she had acquired, before Jon’s hips stuttered, and she departed, seeing as he was on the brink of release, before returning with her dress.

Engrossed as he was by the reading, Jon did not fail to notice Sansa step into her dress, and Jon was struck with the correctness of his supposition that seeing Sansa in such an outfit would trigger his arousal in any circumstance, her full and perky breasts pushed up just enough to be erotic to him without being improper, but Jon wondered if his own lusts blinded him.

“Is, is that comfortable?” Jon enquired, looking at the top of Sansa’s breasts which were presented with extravagant accoutrements, and Sansa, the minx she was, had outdone herself with her craftsmanship, undoing her dress in a way that Jon had not noticed was designed to do, although he had to confess that he’d usually tear anything like straight off her, you horny bastard. Sansa undid, unclipped, unbuttoned and unlaced a lot more of her dress, revealing her body almost completely bare to Jon’s gaze, which went straight to her breasts and cunt, yet keeping the structural outline of her dress despite the missing parts, especially at the back. 

Sansa prepared an area, and after laying down some towels to protect their bed, guided Jon atop them and began to rub the sweet oils into Jon’s skin, the circular rubbing of her fingers began to relax Jon, but unfortunately, his legs began to ache from their unusual positioning - Jon wondered if Sansa felt the same pain but ignored it, and spoke of the same.

“No,” Sansa frowned, ceasing her gentle ministrations, and allowing Jon’s legs to rest upon the bed. “I should have realised that you wouldn’t be used to such a position.”

“I’d still like to try it with you,” Jon confessed, his face reddening at the admission. “But perhaps in a different position?”

Sansa pursed her lips, and glanced around. “Perhaps the bedposts would work as an anchor point so you wouldn’t have to hold your legs up, maybe that would allow them to be raised at a more comfortable angle?”

Jon pondered this for a moment. “Of course, we’d need to keep whatever we used to tie up somewhat flexible without it sliding up and down, which might not be possible right now without adding some extra features.”

Sansa grinned impishly yet in clear jest. “Well, I am the Queen. I could get the carpenter out of bed...” Sansa trailed off. “Well, that might be being a little too selfish, the poor woman needs her sleep.”

“And imagine her poor brain when she works out what it’s for?”

“She’d probably think it’s for me, to be honest.” Sansa said, with the ease of someone speaking the obvious. “Still, it’s a moot point for now, so I guess we’ll have to change positions if we are to…”

Sansa paused as the intensity of Jon’s gaze took the wind out of her words. “I’d like to see you, when we - in the moment, for the first time…”

Sansa smiled back at Jon. “I’d love that too. Perhaps some stretching will work. I learnt this from Arya, though I don’t know if she is fully aware of what I really intended by learning this ability…”

Arya rubbed her chin and frowned at her older sister, whose fold arms and hands clasped together indicated an imperious air of grace. 

“Let me get this straight, you want to learn Water Dancing?”

Sansa nodded, yet clarified with her words. “Perhaps not all of it, just the basics. I need to be able to balance and use my legs without knocking myself over.”

Arya scratched her head, wondering if Sansa came to the right place. “I don’t know if that will work. Sure, I can do a lot of acrobatic stuff but I’ve been training for years, not just with my legs - and I have the obvious danger of a stabbing implement that foes must watch out for. I don’t know if you’ll have the spare time to get the best out of what is probably more specialised techniques…”

But Arya did show Sansa some of her techniques, and Sansa incorporated them into a regimen of her own, coming up with believable excuses when Arya pointed out that ‘although that is impressive, I don’t know how holding one leg up in the air for minutes at a time will thwart a potential assailant.’, but Sansa seemed to be pleased with her progress. For whatever it was worth, Arya tried to impart any small tips she could to aid her sister’s ability to defend herself, should the need arise, but understood that Sansa’s priorities lay elsewhere.

One evening, it came to a head, Arya, though she had a place at the high table, preferred to sit amongst the people. Looking to her usual spot, where she and Jon would usually sit out of the way before she would mingle with the folk, Arya saw Jon’s seat conspicuously empty. 

Sansa had not yet arrived, but the hall was milling with people. Arya wondered if Jon had decided not to come - or if Sansa had made him leave - but she quickly quashed that train of thought, admitting to herself that Sansa was even more of a stalwart defender of Jon’s right to be in Winterfell and a Stark than Arya herself was. But then again, Jon could be an idiot with no self-appreciation. 

But Arya’s worries proved unfounded as Sansa entered the Great Hall a few moments later, with Jon alongside her. Although Arya heard a few murmurings about Jon’s place at the High Table, everyone universally adored their Queen, so they accepted the wisdom of her decision.

But whilst Sansa sat at ease, and whispered to Jon every so often to try and and assure him, Jon seemed more and more uncomfortable as the night wore on. Deep into the evening, with the celebrations in full swing, a toast was shouted to the Queen’s beauty and leadership. Sansa took it with consummate grace, but Jon seemed upset, his face tight. Arya wondered if losing the Kingship rankled Jon more than he let on, and he departed the hall, Sansa following moments later.

Knowing that she’d probably need to back Sansa up when her sister inevitably realised why Jon was moping and that she would need to help Sansa tell Jon that he was appreciated, if not by everyone, at least by his sisters.

Arya slipped away a few moments later, tiptoeing through the halls until she heard Jon’s voice around the corner.

“Fuck sakes, Sansa, how can you do this to me?”

Sansa did not respond, and Arya teetered on the brink of intervening when Jon spoke again.

“You sit me up at the high table next to you and-”

“I thought that’s what you wanted?” Sansa replied softly. 

“I thought I did too,” Jon confessed, and his voice changed, going raspy and husky, making Arya frown with confusion as Jon continued. “But you are a cruel woman with your tortures…”

Arya pondered what Jon meant - making him be so close to the leadership he had lost? Without even considering it, Arya glanced behind her, to see Podrick Payne gesticulating wildly, miming for her silence and swift withdrawal, but before she could make up her mind, there was a slight ‘oomph’ and something bumped against the wall, and the toe of Sansa’s shoe appeared just above face level. Suddenly feeling woozy, no doubt from strong drink, Arya swooned into a slump against the wall, silently sliding down as Podrick watched with apprehension.

He couldn’t possibly leave Arya there, yet he couldn’t disturb the Queen with what she was doing. He’d have to pretend he didn’t know she was there, and even more so, what she was doing.

Jon should have known to keep his mouth shut.

When Sansa informed him that the Prince of Dorne had sent her some fine silks as a gift, Jon had been unable to stop himself from going into a rant about ‘blatant disrespect’ and ‘obviously he wants something more’ and an ominous allude to ‘paying that poncy prince a visit’, despite the fact that he had met the Prince himself and figured him for all-round alright man, real or imagined designs on Sansa notwithstanding.

Realising his own jealously before his innocent sister-cousin did and banished him as his lustful wants deserved, Jon apologised to Sansa, who confirmed that she understood his desire was only to protect her.

He should have known he wouldn’t get off that easily.

The evening began normally, but just after dinner began, Sansa leaned over to inform Jon that she had crafted the silk into a garment she wore, and was looking forward to reactions when someone saw it. Jon, knowing that it would look good, both as a garment and on Sansa, related the same, only to have Sansa lean over and whisper that she couldn’t exactly display it in public company.

Jon had blinked, his mind whirring, when Sansa leaned into speak softly in the shell of his ear once again. “Do you know how cruel you have been, looking at me like you do?”

Jon blanched. “I’m so sorry, Sansa - I’ll leave for the wall - beyond the wall - you’ll never have to see me again, I swear it!” 

Sansa paused, shaking her head. “You truly are an idiot, Jon.” This was quite the change from her usually supportive attitude. “But,” she breathed quietly a few minutes later. “If you don’t want me, stop looking at me like you do. I won’t be able to handle it.”

Of course, someone had to toast to Sansa’s beauty, which made Jon narrow his eyes at anyone who dared look at Sansa, before he turned to see if she was alright.

Apparently she was and wasn’t, for she took the compliments in stride, but once the cheering had died down and something new caught the attention of the feast’s attendees, her gaze turned almost predatory, and Jon realised that the tension between them was about to come to a head.

Jon was careful to look around and make sure he went to an area of the castle that would be deserted around this time; and Sansa had the same idea, following moments later. It was quiet, but Jon wasn’t sure what to do once they were alone - everything Sansa had been doing seemed at the feast seemed to increase Jon’s disgusting wanting for her - even innocent acts like the way she licked her lips or ate her food triggered his lusts. 

But Sansa, when she arrived, didn’t seem to want to delay. “Do you want this?” she asked, seeming certain of the answer but still asking the same. 

Jon nodded, seeing the certainty in Sansa’s eyes giving him the courage to pursue a deepening on their relationship. Sansa stepped forward to take his hand and press it against her dress.

“Feel how wet and desperate you’ve made me.” Sansa whispered in Jon’s ear as he felt her warm core for the first time. “Gods Jon, you don’t know what you do to me…”

“Me!” Jon replied with incredulity borne from Sansa’s words. “Fuck sakes, Sansa, how can you do this to me?”

Sansa hiked up her skirts so Jon’s hands could explore her legs and the treasure at their peak, and Jon’s mind short-circuited when he realised that she wore nothing atop her cunt, her cunny soaked with her arousal. The fact she had been sat next to him during the feast triggered his mind into overdrive.

Now, the fact that Sansa sat bare under her thick dress completely infiltrated Jon’s memory, and it was as if he’d never known anything different all along.

“You sit me up at the high table next to you and-” 

“I thought that’s what you wanted?” Sansa replied naughtily. He did want it, that much was definitely true, but he should have considered the price. 

“I thought I did too. But you are a cruel woman with your tortures…” Jon replied, his finger rubbing around the entrance to her cunt. Sansa shifted herself, allowing his fingertip to slide inside her, before she seemed to tire of his slow ministrations around her cunny and shoved him against the wall, lifting her leg far higher than Jon ever suspected to show the silk that the Prince had gifted her had been crafted to create an undergarment that left her cunt exposed to his gaze, but before Jon could slide to his knees and worship her, they heard a door open in the corridor around the corner. 

“Yes, I shall inform you when I have found the Lady Arya.” It was Podrick’s voice; he must have been speaking with Brienne. “I’ll tell her it’s not a strict emergency, yes, of course, Ser.”

With that, Jon and Sansa decided to move to a more private area.

“Gods, imagine if Podrick hadn’t said anything or we didn’t hear him and he stepped around the corner and saw us…” Sansa trailed off. “I can’t imagine what Arya would think if she knew what I intended to use her teachings for.”

“Let’s not think about Arya,” Jon replied with a strangled voice, the memory of seeing Sansa’s cunt bare for the first time encompassing him. “Although you seemed a little surprised yourself that evening.”

“When you saw me holding my leg up, my cunt soaked and ready for you when you stepped in to that room, I expected you’d want to begin fucking me straight away. I didn’t understand why you’d fall to your knees but I’m glad you did.” 

“The gods are cruel,” Jon lamented solemnly, though his words were in jest. “Forcing a choice between two heavens.”

During their conversation, Sansa had shown Jon how to stretch his muscles in ways he was not used to, though they both had to stop and gather themselves from jumping each other lest their lusts delay their objective, though Jon, with the weaker willpower, still laved his flat tongue against Sansa’s cunt when she happened to straddle his face as she tried to adjust the position of his legs. Sansa, needing Jon to control himself, swiftly sucked him to near completion before stopping at the precipice of his peak, so as to get him to behave himself.

With Sansa’s aid and guidance, Jon found it easier to position his legs, instead of holding them the whole time, he would rest them on Sansa’s shoulders, alleviating the strain on the the muscles that held his legs aloft.

Resting his arse atop the pillow which Sansa placed on the bed, which was needed for the angle Sansa would use, Jon allowed himself to relax, and closed his eyes and let the sensations of Sansa’s hands and fingers wash over him. Sansa moved slowly and methodically, which was both a pleasure and a torment, as he craved both a continual and gradual ascent and a swift climax. Feeling Sansa’s fingertip enter his hole, Jon’s cock twitched as his eyes opened to see Sansa looking down at him, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth as if she dearly wished to sheathe his manhood inside her cunny, and Jon shared her sentiments, the only thing Jon misliked of the moment was that he was barely able to touch Sansa, as most of the time Jon’s hands were always all over his wife’s body, but his position prevented anything more but the fleetest flash of touches. 

“How do you feel?” Sansa asked breathlessly, as though she were the one being affected by Jon’s touching in her body rather than the other way around. 

“Fuck, Sansa. I wish I could touch you more,” Jon pleaded, trying to wrap his legs around her body, but she was just too far back. Sansa giggled as Jon’s foot ghosted over her body, but she ceased her ministrations to lay herself flat against him.

“Do you really want this?” Sansa asked, her eyes filled with concern. 

“Fuck yes, Sansa.” Jon looked away with embarrassment. “The first time I saw you in that armour dress I wanted you to bend me over and fuck me in every conceivable way, and that was just a quarter of my wicked, lustful thoughts in the moment.”

Sansa blushed. “Perhaps - if this works out - we can try it? If you still wish it, that is…”

“There is very little I wouldn’t want to do if it was with you, Sansa.” Jon confessed, as Sansa cleaned her hands and prepared the contraption that she would use; a finely crafted shaft of polished wood that she had coated with warm, slippery oils, fastened to her body by use of a harness that would rub against her as she moved. 

Sansa guided herself into Jon with the utmost care, moving herself so slowly as to be almost imperceptible as Jon trained himself to accept the foreign intrusion. Letting out a breath, Jon nodded at Sansa’s questioning gaze, as his wife drew herself out and then pushed back in, every motion swinging the pendulum of sensation from oddity to arousal, as Sansa moved her hands to his cock, and gently pumped it as she fucked him, before coating his cock with her oils, her hands slipping and sliding around his shaft as she moved, the pad pressing against the button at the top of her cunt sinking her into the moment, a slight peak guiding her to thrust into Jon at different angle than usual. Jon groaned at this change, reaching out to clasp Sansa’s fingers in his, before Sansa snapped her hips again and Jon burst, his seed erupting from his cock with a pulsing effusion. 

Sansa withdrew herself as Jon regained his senses, and once again, he saw that Sansa’s demeanour had changed, a flush encompassed her body as though she were too innocent for the act they had just partaken in. 

“How do you feel?” Jon asked, short of breath from his release. 

“I don’t know if it is something I’d want to do all the time,” Sansa admitted. “But I’d do it again - if you’d want it too.”

Jon did indeed want it again at some point, but he’d need to train Sansa’s muscles so she could hold him up under her own power - or sneak a few carpentry lessons on the side - anything so that he could revel in the tactile sensation of having as much physical contact with Sansa as possible. 

“Perhaps differently, next time.” Jon replied, feeling a woozy tiredness sweep over him. Sansa began to clear everything off of their bed as Jon recovered from their escapades.

Once she had cleared everything up, Sansa paused, as though considering what she was going to do next. She stepped over to the fireplace, stoking the flames and returning to Jon’s side, cuddling up next to him.

“I was thinking about having an open feast tomorrow - set it all up in the courtyard, instead of the kitchen. I think Tormund and the Free Folk will appreciate that.”

Jon wrapped his arm around Sansa and pulled her close to him, nodding his head into her chest as sleep began to take him. Sansa, though she still wore part of her feast dress for the next evening, accepted her reality, and moulded herself into Jon’s side, before she dragged a thick fur atop the two of them.

“At least you won’t have to imagine what I look like in my dress.” Sansa remarked, rested her cheek against Jon’s head. Jon stiffened, realising that actual experience would only heighten, not detract from, his imagination, come the morrow. 

“Sansa, you menace!” 


End file.
